40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 849, Section 20: Interlude - The Cocktail Party (Part Two)
“You’ve made a mistake,” Robert Guilliman said, enunciating each word clearly, his expression stern and serious, like an old teacher giving a lecture.

"What? How could this be?" His student, a giant with bloodshot eyes and jet-black skin, asked, utterly bewildered. "Where did you make a mistake? Didn't this move already win the game?"

The blacksmith, who had traveled a long way, sat before a chessboard, his brows furrowed, his expression unusually tense. This had nothing to do with who his opponent was; it was simply because the loser of this game had to drink half a barrel of Riemann Russ's private brew in one gulp.
Even for the Lord of Fire Dragons, this was no easy task. His opponent naturally did not want to lose either, but this matter could not be changed by his will.

The one-armed man sighed, loosened the buttons on his collar which seemed a little too tight, leaned back, and shook his head with a smile.

“I concede, brother.” Anglang nodded decisively, but didn’t forget to add, “Also, don’t listen to that wretched scribe’s nonsense. He just wants you to try Russ’s wine like he does.”

Vulcan raised an eyebrow, looked at him, then back at Guilliman standing beside him. Looking at the wooden goblet in the latter's hand, he smiled too.

He slowly rose and went to the dark brown wooden barrels that now occupied one wall of the spacious banquet hall. He bent down, picked one up, and carried it back to the chessboard.

Despite being the loser, Anglang showed no resistance. Instead, he approached the blacksmith with some anticipation and lifted the tightly sealed lid of the barrel with one hand.

A very pungent and strong odor wafted out, causing the five hundred world lords, who were still holding a half-full wooden wine cup, to involuntarily take a step back.

"You haven't finished drinking yet, Robert," someone kindly reminded him from behind.

The clerk wanted to take a deep breath, but after thinking it over, he gave up the idea. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and drank the mead in his cup in one gulp.

He had done his best to avoid letting his tongue touch the cold liquid. However, even that brief contact was enough for his tongue, which could now be used as an analytical instrument, to identify every ingredient and send it to his brain.

Robert Guilliman stood there with a furrowed brow, and after several seconds he muttered a curse under his breath.

"What are you saying over there in the Macurag dialect?" The person who reminded him raised his hand, helped him up, and asked curiously.

“...Just an exclamation,” Guilliman replied sternly. “I really didn’t expect that Ruth would add heart-crushing herb extract to his drink. That’s hardly drink; it’s practically poison!”

"But if it really is poison, why didn't you taste it when you took the first sip?"

Guilliman glanced at the person who asked the question, withdrew his left hand from the support, and gave a cold, indifferent snort.

"Because half of my face was numb from this so-called alcohol back then, and it's only now that I've gotten used to it!"

After saying that, he turned and left, returning to the long table to work on the documents.

The person asking the question couldn't help but chuckle—it was he who had defeated Guilliman, who was clearly distracted, in that recent game of Kingslayer.

Although the latter was preoccupied with matters outside the game, he didn't want to argue; he simply accepted his defeat and raised his glass.
"What are you laughing at, Fugen?"

"nothing."

The elegantly dressed Chemos replied in a light tone, turning around quickly to observe Anglang's expression, but his face suddenly changed.

For no other reason than that the blacksmith and the gladiator were blocking his path from the left and right, and the blacksmith was holding three goblets in one hand, in which Russ's mead swayed, its color beautiful and ever-changing under the soft light, frighteningly gorgeous.
"What, what are you doing?" the Chermos asked, his voice trembling with fear. "Why are you carrying three wine glasses!"

Vulcan didn't answer, but simply smiled, took one out, and handed it to him. The Chermos man immediately turned to leave, but another hand grabbed his shoulder.

Anglang said to him in an unusually malicious tone, “Don’t go, Fugen. Everyone should have a share of Ruth’s craft beer. Don’t you want him to wake up and find out you didn’t drink his beer? Azek Ariman and Bjorn said this batch of beer has been buried underground in Wolf’s Tooth Fort for almost four thousand years.”

"To be precise, it is 3,762 years."

Forgrim turned his head and saw the back of Leon Aljonsson standing in a panoramic window with his back to them. Regardless of what the lion was thinking when he spoke up to correct him, the Chermos man shouted as if he had grasped a lifeline.

"Come help me, Leon!"

The lion slowly turned its head, its white hair and long beard, its eyes slightly narrowed, exuding a regal air. However, meeting Forgrim's gaze, it said nothing. The Chemos's expression stiffened slightly, and this was only the beginning.

The lion then slowly walked over, took the goblet from Vulcan's hand, and placed it in Forgrim's hand.

He chuckled softly, watching the latter's incredulous gaze.

“You don’t know this, brother. Strictly speaking, this batch of wine should actually be considered as something that he and I brewed together. Even the idea of ​​adding the Heart-Destroying Grass was mine.”

“Looks like you have no choice, Fugen,” Anglang said cheerfully, taking the glass of wine from Vulcan. “Shall we drink it together?”

"No, no, that's not right!" The Chemos man, after subconsciously agreeing, suddenly realized what he had done and immediately shouted, "I didn't lose the chess game, why should I drink?!"

“Because everyone drinks,” Vulcan replied with a smile. “Of course, you can choose not to drink, my dear brother, but I think that wouldn’t be fair to Ruth.”

The Chemos gritted his teeth, tilted his head back, and seemingly furiously downed the cup of mead. In the ensuing violent shock, he painfully squeezed his eyes shut, but a barely perceptible smile played on his lips.

Meanwhile, at a long table not far away, Feralus Manus was talking with Peturabo.

The two of them had no discernible expression on their faces, but they spoke at an extremely fast pace, one after the other, almost without stopping.

Sitting to their right, Saint Gilles listened listlessly, showing little interest in topics such as 'improved energy storage coils' and 'testing of new explosive gun materials,' only occasionally responding with a word or two.

It wasn't that he wasn't interested in these things, but rather that the conversation between Iron Hand and the Lord of Iron had become almost purely theoretical, and since he wasn't deeply involved in this area, he couldn't offer any useful insights.

Therefore, Saint Gilles felt that his best option now was to fold his wings, sit comfortably in his chair, and occasionally take a bite of the cool dessert in front of him that Belisarius Caul had gradually popularized throughout the solar system.

Yes, the archangels really like these inexpensive snacks with a wide variety of flavors.

Interestingly, not many people know about this. Even within the Blood Angels, only a handful know that their Primarch, the Regent of the Empire, the Symbol of Hope, and the Incarnation of Imperial Glory, would eat this cheap dessert, which costs only five Imperial Coins, one after another, in his spare time.
However, his detached attitude from the conversation soon aroused the dissatisfaction of one of them.

"Saint-Gilles".

The archangel, whose name was called, raised an eyebrow, and after a moment's consideration, put down the silver spoon in his hand. With a flawless smile, he turned his head and adopted a listening posture towards the expressionless Lord of Steel.

"What's wrong, Abo?"

The Olympian, already indifferent to the title, sneered and tapped the table, issuing a curt order to leave: "You'd better find somewhere else to eat that damn sweets. Felus and I need more space!"

Saint Gilles frowned and looked at Iron Hand, who calmly nodded in agreement.

The archangel sighed softly, picked up the silver dish in front of him, and slowly stood up, but still didn't forget to retort.

"Are you two planning to fight here and tear this table down? You need more space, so how am I bothering you by sitting here?"

He grumbled, but quickened his pace, reaching the end of the long table in a flash. There sat an unassuming priest in a brown robe. Compared to the others in the banquet hall, he possessed neither striking good looks nor a tall, strong physique; even his posture seemed restrained. "Brother," Saint Gilles greeted him with a smile, taking a seat to his left without any hesitation. "How have you been lately? How is the reform of the state church going?"

The pastor nodded hesitantly, intending to remain silent, but the archangel's question was so perfectly timed that he couldn't control himself and began to speak in a low voice.

"No, not at all, Saint Gilles, not at all. There are just too many factions within the state church, and whether they are large or small, they all generally believe that they are the most correct one. I simply cannot persuade these fanatics with words."

Saint Gilles scooped up a spoonful of dessert from the plate and brought it to himself, but did not eat it immediately. Instead, he glanced at the priest seemingly casually.

“Then,” he said softly, “you could have used another method.”

The priest's already labored breathing suddenly caught in his throat. He smiled wryly at Saint Gilles, who had already put the spoonful of delicious food into his mouth and was savoring it with his eyes half-closed. The priest couldn't help but sigh softly and shake his head.

“I know you want to persuade me to accept the papacy. But I have said many times that I am not suitable.”

“I didn’t say anything, brother,” the archangel replied casually.

“Alright, then I’ll pretend you didn’t say anything,” the priest replied helplessly, his eyes fixed on the silver plate in Saint Gilles’s hand.

He hesitated for a moment, then asked with a hint of curiosity, "What are you eating? A new dessert?"

"It's a dessert, but it's been popular for a while now. It's one of hundreds of flavors that an automated machine invented by Belisarius Caul can blend, and he's already promoted it throughout the solar system."

"What's it called? Is it tasty?"

The archangel shrugged, scooped out a large spoonful and put it in his mouth, answering the pastor's question with slightly slurred speech.

"Cauer didn't name it, but each nest has its own name—the Emperor's Gift, a Miracle, a Reward for the Devotee—it's always related to faith. People generally don't believe that such a delicacy can be bought for only five Imperial coins. They always feel that it should cost extra."

"Five Imperial coins?!" The priest was so shocked he even stood up. "Say that again?!"

Saint Gilles tilted his head back, brought the plate to his lips, and ate the last bit of food, simultaneously concealing the smug smile in his eyes.
A few seconds later, he put down the plate and spoon and nodded directly into the pastor's line of sight.

"Yes, you heard right, only five Imperial Coins."

The pastor took a deep breath, sat down, reached out and grabbed the archangel's forearm, and asked urgently, his tone almost pleading.

"Does it contain sugar? I mean, real sugar? What about the other raw materials? What about the quality control? Is anyone in Nest City trying to monopolize these machines?"

He spoke faster and faster, becoming more and more excited, but towards the end, his voice became lower and deeper.

Saint Gilles did not answer him, but squinted at the outstretched hand, the horrific crisscrossing scars on it causing the archangel's right hand, which was resting on his lap, to clench into a fist instantly.

"Ugh"

The pastor finally calmed down, bowed his head, and sighed deeply. He seemed utterly exhausted, and slowly released his grip, leaning back in his chair.

"What's wrong, Luo Jia?" Saint Gilles asked softly.

“I’m just confused,” Loga Aurelion replied, head bowed. “If I were still a missionary, I wouldn’t have needed to ask those questions.”

"why?"

“Because back then, I could walk among people,” Luo Jia said in a low voice. “Back then, no matter what happened in the Nest City, I could know immediately—whose child was sick, whose husband had an accident, whose wife had a difficult childbirth—I could judge whether people were doing well or not through these small things. But now, I don’t even know things that I used to know in just ten minutes.”

He finally raised his head and looked at Saint Gilles.

“Macado told me that I had to enter the state church to gain more power so that more people could live with dignity and happiness, like the people in the two hives where I had served as a missionary. I know he’s right, but now I feel it’s meaningless. What’s the point of power if the price of it is to distance myself from those who need my help the most?”

Looking at his brother, who was in great pain, Saint Gilles remained silent, his gaze filled with complex emotions.
Just then, a person whose hands and feet were locked by magnetic locks, who was still some distance away from the long table, suddenly let out a slightly mocking chuckle—Omega, still wrapped in bandages, spoke slowly in a leisurely tone that was completely out of character for his current awkward predicament.

"Hey brother, you're already one of the cardinals, you must have some acolytes and priests loyal to you, right?"

Saint Gilles frowned, but did not stop him.

Luo Jia turned around and answered with a complicated expression, "Yes."

“Then why don’t you have them gather information about this for you?” Omega deliberately gave a sinister smile. “That shouldn’t be difficult for you, right? Or is it that the mental illness you developed after your resurrection is so severe that you’re even unwilling to give orders to others? What, do you feel unworthy? Oh, brother, frankly speaking, if we’re really going to delve into the issue of worthy or unworthy, you don’t even deserve to live.”

He paused, met Saint Gilles's cold gaze, whose face was now filled with anger, tilted his head, and added with a smile.

“Of course, me too,” he said. “None of us deserve to live.”

"enough."

Saint Gilles interrupted him grimly, and without further ado, pulled up Loja, who was nodding in agreement.

"Come with me, let's go to the terrace and discuss this in detail."

Watching their receding figures, the disabled prisoner, sitting alone in the corner, shrugged nonchalantly.

A moment later, he laboriously turned his body, propelling his wheelchair, and asked his jailer a question.

“Where has my dear uncle gone, Ms. Celestine? He’s left me here almost an hour ago.”

"I don't know," the nun replied sternly, quietly reading a book.

"Can't you know, do you know?"

"No."

“Please, ma’am,” Omega pleaded. “I’m so bored!”

Sellers put down the book with a pursed lip, got up and left, but behind him came the happy thanks from the snake-headed man.

"Thank you, Ms. Celestine!"

Oh, God-Emperor, shut him up. Celestine covered his face and quickened his pace.

(End of this chapter)